


steal the air from my lungs

by zxrysky



Series: the sea calls me [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mermaids, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Alternate Universe - Sirens, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 17:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10835607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zxrysky/pseuds/zxrysky
Summary: “Read the news,” his grandma told him with something sad in her eyes, and passed him the newspapers lying on the table. She lifted him on her lap and turned the page, flipped through the black and white words until it landed on a picture of the ocean, wide and blue, stretching out far into the horizon.“Missing people at sea,” Lance read out dutifully, and his eyes grew big. “They don’t come back?” He asked in a small voice. He couldn’t imagine- he couldn’t imagine just leaving. He couldn’t imagine going missing. He thought of James, barely two, holding on to Lance’s hands as he toddled along the ground, and shuddered.“They don't, baby. These missing people at sea, they don’t ever come back.” His grandma looked old and tired, and Lance abruptly thought of his granddad, lost at sea long before Lance came into the world, and all that was left was this huge house.





	steal the air from my lungs

**Author's Note:**

> you, you unman me. you take me apart at the seams. you are my end.

That time of the year rolls around again, drenching Lance in heat and making his skin shiver from the way it fits too tight around his body, when drops of sweat roll off his skin and dot the sand curled tightly around his toes. He ducks under the umbrella his older sister’s set up, flicking salt from the ocean at her as he reaches for the ice box. It glistens in the sun, condensed water lingering on the sides and he knows, _knows_ that there are popsicles in there. Sweet, cold ice popsicles that he can just slide down his throat-

 

“- no,” his sister tells him, batting his hand away. “Later. Go fool around in the ocean some more first.”

 

He flops down on the mat, closing his eyes tight and wiping the back of his hand against his forehead. It comes away sticky with sweat, sand grains pressing on his skin and leaving tiny imprints of summer on him. “It’s hot,” he whines, inching closer to his sister’s feet. The umbrella isn’t as big as it used to be, or maybe Lance grew taller from last year. The shade cast by the swooping umbrella didn’t seem so small last time.

 

“Popsicle?” His younger brother darts in under the umbrella, tripping over Lance’s leg and falling on top of him, skin slick with salt and sand sliding against each other, and Lance can feel the sticky spots where James forgot to rub out his sunscreen properly. “Ew,” he groans, but doesn’t take any action to get off Lance. “You’re sticky.”

 

Lance watches James scrunch his nose up, little furrows forming in his forehead, lets his brother wipe a hand against his arm and rolls his eyes. “ _You’re_ stickier, because you insisted in rolling around in the sand after swimming. Gross.” He has half a mind to peel James off himself, but Lance finds his arms are absolutely bereft of any energy whatsoever.

 

His older sister throws an ice cube in their direction and James scrambles up, kneeing Lance in the process as he leans forward to catch it in his mouth, hands coming up to cup beneath his chin in case he misses. Lance can hear the ice cube knock against his brother’s bunny teeth, the crunch of James biting down, the satisfied hum as his brother sits down and leans against him.

 

“It’s cold,” James says, eyes bright. “Popsicle?”

 

Lilia closes the ice box, shaking her head as she slides her shades back down. “You just had one an hour ago. You can’t eat too many at once, James. Later.” The deckchair sinks further into the sand when she shifts in her seat, tilting back and pressing against the cloth. There are small grains of sand scattered across the pages of her books and she brushes them off, catches them out from beneath her nails and flicks them to the ground.

 

She prods Lance’s side with her toe, eyes never lifting from her book as she murmurs, “I thought you were going to have the time of your life today? Seems lackluster.”

 

“There’s no one to _play_ with,” Lance mutters back, resignation heavy in his voice. It’s still too early for the summer crowd to come in, and the beach only has a few people spread out, all gathered in their own small cliques. The tourists aren’t here yet, the students are all still stuck in school, and Lance is only here because his parents took him out of school early to visit his grandma. There’s only so much swimming Lance is willing to do in the ocean by himself. With how old James is, they can’t even dive to check out the corrals together.

 

He can’t exactly tell from behind the shades, but he’s fairly certain his sister is giving him a pitying look. Lance shrugs, tangling his fingers in James’ hair and combing through the knots formed, brushing out the matted hair. James squirms a little and Lance sits up, leaning against his sister’s deckchair. His younger brother settles on his lap, back to chest, and his head barely reaches Lance’s shoulders.

 

“Popsicle,” James says mournfully, and Lance tugs at his hair.

 

“Lilia said soon,” he reminds James. “She said later,” he amends, when Lilia knocks her knee against his shoulders. “You’ll get your treat later. Be patient. We can go play in the sea again soon, if you want.”

 

James shakes his head and Lilia makes a whimper in the back of her throat when remnants of the ocean splatter on her. Lance has to trap his brother in his arms when James almost topples over with how hard he’s laughing, and there’s the beginnings of a smile starting on Lilia’s face as well, with Lance’s cheeks hurting from the force of his grin.

 

“I wanna nap,” James says, tilting his head back to look up at Lance. “Here, in the shade. You can go play!”

 

James is so horribly eager with his suggestion that Lance can’t help but let his lips turn up, gently easing James off his lap and standing up, brushing the sand grains off his lap.

 

“Maybe I’ll go swim a few more laps,” he comments, stretching his hands to the sky. The sun’s a little more lenient, more a warm embrace rather than a stifling grip around his body, and Lance wanders out to the ocean.

 

He stands knee-deep, lets the tides wash over him and lap at his thighs, closes his eyes and inhales the bone deep scent of salt. There’s layers of heat piled over him, making his head slightly dizzy and his knees go weak, breath coming a little heavier as his eyelids flutter.

 

 _Summer_ , Lance thinks, and dives into the ocean.

 

-+-

 

The fable goes: there is a creature who looks like a human but is anything just.

 

The story goes: once, there was a boy who walked along the ocean one too many times. There was music in the sea, riding the currents, blown along by the wind and circling the air around him. The moon was always in the night sky, framed by wispy clouds and fluttering stars. The ocean shimmered before him, bright and beautiful and blinding.

 

Once, he met a girl who swam in the ocean at night, half submerged in the ocean and diving like she was meant to be a sea creature instead of human. He had to stand in the ocean to talk to her; he had to sit on the sandbed and let the waves wash up to his chest to be on eye level with her as they spoke through the night. She sang, always sang to him every night, and it made his throat close up and his mind go dizzy.

 

Her song made him go mad, and he called it love.

 

She called it food, and when he swam out too deep to meet her, she reached up to kiss him and swallowed every noise he made as she took him down into the ocean, tail whipping as she taught him what drowning was like.

 

The last thing he saw was her wings, white and wondrous, glittering in the midst of the sea at night, shining in the water.

 

The last thing he thought he saw, was an angel.

 

-+-

 

There’s a secret hideout on this beach that Lance hasn’t told anyone about. He’s not sure if anyone knows about it, but with how empty it looks, he likes to think he’s the first person who stepped foot in it and claimed it with seaweed thrown haphazardly over sharp rocks, a small but carefully arranged collection of sea-shells in a rounded alcove further in, the grimy handprint of a boy who found squid ink and stained his palm.

 

When he goes to this cave, Lance finds he doesn’t actually do much. There’s no large fantastical paintings strewn over the place, no boyish dreams that bloom into fruition here, no half-hidden sobs and emotional breakdowns stuffed in the cracks between the salt formations. Lance just likes how quiet it is, the serenity of the place seeping into his bones and locking into position. He sits here for lengthy periods of time, perched at the edge of the rock pool and kicking his feet in the water, counting the ripples he makes and watching the colored rocks below glimmer in the occasional sunlight that leaks through the cave.

 

He thinks he’d like to introduce this place to James someday, make it a secret between the two boys of the family, a private place where two brothers can nap against each other, heads pressing against sharp planes of shoulders and hands wrapped around each other, backs against slippery walls decorated with dark green moss that stains the hands.

 

But today, Lance steps into the cave and freezes when he sees someone else in the rock pool. The stranger cuts a sharp figure against the rocks, long limbed and slender, his skin the color of the moon when it’s swollen in the night sky. He’s gazing intently at Lance’s shell collection, prodding a particularly pink one and pressing his fingers against the grooves of the back.

 

Lance makes a confused noise before he can stop himself, something that sounds familiarly like James’ classic whine escaping his mouth before he slaps both hands over it.

 

The stranger doesn’t react, just slowly pushes the shell back and straightens, the curve of his lower back especially stunning in the shimmering water. _Sapphires_ , Lance thinks dazedly when the boy turns his head slightly, letting those purple eyes slide across Lance. They’re Lilia’s birth month jewel, and he can’t remember seeing those small gems she has threaded into a necklace ever being this bright.

 

“Human,” the boy says, and Lance blinks rapidly at him, opening and closing his mouth a few times. He feels like a fish out of water, caught on land with his sea legs shaking the life out of him, and he tilts, gripping the side of the rock wall for support.

 

“Yeah,” Lance confirms. “Human.” Is the boy a foreigner? Does he not know what to call Lance in English? “I’m Lance.”

 

“Lance,” the boy repeats, and there’s the flash of a smile, pearly whites grinning at him and Lance swears they look a little sharp. _Foreigners_. “Pleasure.”

 

Lance swallows tightly, wondering when he missed the lesson in etiquette that it was alright to not introduce oneself in return. He nods slowly, feeling dizzy. “It’s nice to see someone my age.”

 

“Your age?” The boy looks surprised, but his brows soon smooth out and there’s a sharp grin on his face, something that makes the hairs on Lance’s skin stand on end. “I’m just a bit-” he holds up two fingers to demonstrate, “-older than you.”

 

Another flash of teeth, and Lance inches forward. “Just a bit,” the boy says again, eyes alit with humor.

 

“Do you have a name?” Lance asks, before letting his eyes drop and glance at his shell collection. It looks mainly intact, and he doesn’t suspect that the boy’s taken any of his shells. It took a lot of hard work, long hours spent combing the beach and putting up with Lilia’s eye rolling that got him to this point, with a nice round number of one hundred unique shells in his collection. It’s important to him.

 

The boy laughs and it sounds almost musical. There’s a pounding in Lance’s head like the beat of the drums they play at the campfire, with rowdy teens yelling as they swing around with fingers gripping the dangling necks of cheap beer bottles.

 

He throws something to Lance and Lance has to push himself away from the wall to catch it, almost scraping himself against the ground as he opens his shaking palms and sees the pale pink shell inside. It’s almost as large as his palm, and he was planning to give it to Lilia for her birthday. As part of a larger gift, but still.

 

“That one’s nice,” the boy says thoughtfully, elbow propped against the ground as he leans his head on his palm. “Did you steal it?”

 

“What?” Lance hopes he sounds scandalized, but his voice comes out weak. “I don’t- I don’t _steal_.”

 

“But those shells didn’t belong to you.”

 

“They don’t belong to _anyone_.”

 

The boy looks at him consideringly, lips curling up. “Do they?” He asks, and Lance closes his eyes, praying to God for strength. This boy is exactly like James, questioning everything and anything, an infuriating smile on his face and brightness in his eyes.

 

When he opens his eyes again, the boy is gone, and there aren’t even ripples left in the rock pool to show he had ever been in there.

 

Lance has to press his palm against the ground to steady himself as he drops to his knees, and he slices his flesh against the sharp cut of a rock to his side. The pain is a bright blinding beacon flashing at the back of his eyelids and barely stops Lance from passing out.

 

“The fuck?” He murmurs, voice going scratchy. The cave suddenly fills with laughter, rippling through the pool, bouncing off the walls – Lance imagines the boy laughing, mouth wide with pointed teeth and sapphire gems for eyes and for a moment, he can’t think straight.

 

-+-

 

Lance doesn’t return to the cave for a week. When he left, he had brought his whole shell collection with him, carefully cradling all painstakingly chosen seashells in the curve of his arms and the makeshift bag of a shirt wrapped around a stick. He went home and arranged everything nicely in a corner of his room, and privately thought that the moonlight didn’t frame his shells as nicely as the silver tinged light from the hole at the top of the cave did.

 

But he remembers the boy with the laugh, the sharp teeth, the distracting eyes, and he stays away, because he’s not stupid.

 

 _Don’t talk to strangers_ , he recalls his Mama telling him sternly, both palms cupping his cheeks, her hair falling against his shoulders and her perfume in his nose as she kneels before him. _Stay away, and come tell me or your dad or your grandma if someone tries to talk to you and you feel scared._

 

 _Ok Mama,_ he promises, year after year, every time they go back to the beach. It’s always when they go to the beach, to the giant holiday house his grandma lives in all by herself.

 

She never reminds him to stay away from strangers if they’re back in the city, but for some reason Lance can’t wrap his mind around, she deems it necessary to remind him over and over again. And only him, because his sister looked at him strangely when he asked her once, why their Mama felt it fit to repeat those words so often.

 

James is too young to wander off by himself, so there’s no worry about him talking to strangers. Not when he’s always under the watchful eye of an adult, or of Lilia.

 

Sometimes he catches his Papa staring out of the window, at the sea, looking like he’s lost something important with a haze in his eyes. His Papa sways lightly on the spot like he’s about to faint, takes one step towards the window, and his Mama appears out of nowhere to place a firm hand on his elbow.

 

“Darling,” she says quietly, and it feels like his Papa just woke up, Lance watching as he blinks slowly and presses a hand to his head, rubbing at his eyes. His Papa stops looking at the ocean then, looks at his Mama and doesn’t look away at all, follows her into their room with a quiet sigh and a light touch on Lance’s neck to gently push him back to his room.

 

He asked his grandma once, looked up at her with big eyes and one hand wrapped around the edge of her hoop skirt and said, “why is Mama so afraid of me talking to strangers?”

 

He’d asked the question when he was eight, he thinks, because time gets hazy when he thinks back too far. It was quite a number of years ago, before his voice cracked and he got taller than Lilia, before he could reach the cookies in the second shelf in the kitchen.

 

“Read the news,” his grandma told him with something sad in her eyes, and passed him the newspapers lying on the table. She lifted him on her lap and turned the page, flipped through the black and white words until it landed on a picture of the ocean, wide and blue, stretching out far into the horizon.

 

“Missing people at sea,” Lance read out dutifully, and his eyes grew big. Something cold settled in the bottom of his stomach, because he knew a girl whose older brother had went missing in the city. The girl had cried and cried and hadn’t come to school for days, and people in class said that her brother had never been found.

 

Missing meant a dog running away in the middle of the night, and no matter how many times Lance put food out on the doorstep and waited at the window until he fell asleep, the food was untouched. Missing meant a hole in the heart and an aching pain that never went away.

 

“Every year, baby,” his grandma said. “Every year, people go missing. Boys, like you. All the way until they’re your papa’s age. Missing.”

 

“They don’t come back?” Lance asked in a small voice. He couldn’t imagine- he couldn’t imagine just _leaving_. He couldn’t imagine going _missing_. He thought of James, barely two, holding on to Lance’s hands as he toddled along the ground, and shuddered.

 

“They don't, baby. These missing people at sea, they don’t _ever_ come back.” His grandma looked old and tired, and Lance abruptly thought of his granddad, lost at sea long before Lance came into the world, and all that was left was this huge house.

 

So, Lance’s not stupid. He’s not going to talk to strangers. He’s _not_ , especially not to mysterious people who swim in hidden away caves and disappear in the blink of an eye. He’s going to stay with James, with Lilia, his Mama and Papa, and Lance is _old_ enough to know that boy is just a little bit suspicious.

 

Sixteen years is a long time to have lived. To Lance, at least, but his Papa always chokes on his laughter and ruffles Lance’s hair when Lance tells him that. Sixteen years of living, and Lance isn’t going to risk _any_ of that to go _missing at sea_ because of a strange boy.

 

Slippery slope fallacy, yeah, but Lance isn’t going to take any chances.

 

He _isn’t_.

 

-+-

 

Someday, he thinks, and his breath stutters in his throat. Someday, he is going to die from stupidity. From adrenaline and anticipation, from adventure bubbling in his soul and choking him from within, gripping him by the throat and leading him to disaster and tragedy. He’s heard all about how curiosity killed the cat, he knows all about how missing one step on the tightrope is all one needs to fall down, down, down, and lie with blank eyes and stone limbs on the bottom of the circus arena. He watched that in a movie, on the wide television screen and he had to cover James’ eyes while Lilia covered his ears.

 

Lance takes a deep steadying breath, curls his fingers into tight fists and shakes his head forcefully, trying to knock the nerves out of himself through sheer willpower.

 

He’s just going to enter the cave, do a quick sweep of the place, and get those ten shells he _must_ have left behind. Just ten shells, and he’s spent three days agonizing over whether it was worth it to go back and get them. He’s made his decision, so here he is, back pressed against the seawater slippery wall and peeking into the cave.

 

There doesn’t seem to be anyone, so he takes one step in and freezes, in case it sets off any alert. No one rises out of the rock pool with vengeance in their eyes so Lance takes another step forward, one more step, and hurries in afterwards, eyes wide as his gaze darts around hurriedly for his shells.

 

He spots a couple glimmering near a rock right below his usual alcove, so he must have dropped them by accident. A sigh of relief escapes him when he realizes they’re still in good condition, but his lips twist into a frustrated frown when he realizes he’s still one short. His other favorite, a small blue one the size of his big toe that glitters when the light catches it correctly.

 

Lance is ready to continue searching when he hears a splash and a sharp intake of air. He can practically taste the interest in the air, static electricity buzzing around him and making his hair stand on end. He isn’t touching anything but he can still feel the pinpricks of shock rushing through him, like tiny electrocutions to remind him he’s here for a reason.

 

“You’re back,” the boy says – of _course_ it’s the boy, no one else could be here – with what sounds like wonder in his voice. It’s enough to make Lance turn around, to be treated to the sight of the boy staring at him with what looks like awe, his hands wrapped around a large rock at the edge of the rock pool, peeking out from the side.

 

The boy almost seems _nervous_ , and Lance swallows tightly. “I am,” he says, and doesn’t say anything after that.

 

At least, he’d _like_ to stop talking after that, but the boy is biting his lip and those teeth really _do_ look sharp, and Lance gets worried for a brief moment. “You should-“ he stops, flushes, looks away and looks back with determination in his eyes. “You should stop biting your lips.”

 

“Huh?” The boy’s mouth drops open and Lance gestures weakly at his bottom lip. The stranger’s thumb reaches up to swipe against the cut in his lip and it comes away red. He stares at it for a moment, pink tongue reaching out to lick the cut and he dunks his stained thumb into the water, rubbing at it.

 

Lance is certain that’s not hygienic, licking at a cut when he knows there’s salt water on that tongue. Salt water from the _sea_.

 

“You should get that checked out,” he says slowly, and the boy’s head comes up so fast to look at him that Lance almost gets whiplash just from looking at him.

 

“It’s just blood,” the boy tells him, and suddenly bares his teeth. It makes Lance yelp and scramble back, eyes wide and hands shaking, barely holding on to the shells in his palms. Those teeth are- sharp. Sharp, like the knives his grandma uses to slice up fish. They look like they’d cut through Lance like butter, and he has to resist shuddering at the thought.

 

“Come closer,” the boy says, and there’s something in Lance that wants to _obey_ , even if the rest of him is highly suspicious about the boy. It doesn’t help that he’s jaw droppingly attractive either, with what Lance can tell from the upper half of his body. There’s something dark red curling at his hips, the color of split wine, of blood that’s been left unchecked for too long, and Lance feels the urge to run his fingers over it.

 

It looks like sea shells pressed into his skin, and they’re the prettiest sea shells Lance has ever seen in his life. He dares to reach out and the boy lets him, lets him barely brush his fingertips against the sharp curve of sea shells before the stranger grips him by the wrist and hauls him in.

 

Lance’s eyes go wide, mouth opening to yell, shout, do _something_ , but the most he can do is grab a huge mouth of air before he goes tumbling down, dragged down into the rock pool and his shells are scattered in the water, rising back up to float on the surface while he sinks further and further, a death sentence wrapped around his wrist.

 

Bubbles rush out of his mouth and his chest starts to hurt; he’s pretty sure there’s bruises on his wrist by now, with how hard the boy’s gripping him, and Lance’s never realized how deep this rock pool is. It’s never occurred to him it _could_ be this deep, when he can normally see the rocks piled up on the bottom just by sitting at the edge. He can normally _stand_ in the rock pool and still have the water only kissing his shoulders.

 

He splutters and lifts a weak hand to slap at the boy’s wrist, hits him as hard as he can while trying to move against the water, feels his eyelids grow heavy and it's a struggle to keep them open. He can’t see the bottom half of the boy; everything’s dark, almost pitch black, and Lance’s heart is beating too fast, thundering away in his chest and it sounds like marching to his death.

 

If he squints, he thinks he can see the outline of wings tracing the edges of the boy’s back, reaching up beyond his shoulders.

 

The boy twists, looks up, opens his mouth and looks vaguely surprised that Lance is _drowning_. He stops dragging Lance down and rockets up, so fast that Lance can feel his ears popping, can feel his fingers shaking from the pressure and his lungs caving in on themselves. His skin feels too small for his body and abruptly, they burst through the surface of the water.

 

Lance forces his eyes open, realizing they had been shut for the whole journey up, and chokes out water, lungs heaving as he gasps in breath after breath of sweet air. There’s tears in his eyes and pain in his throat; he feels like he swallowed water wrongly, like there’s water in every crevice of his body right now, and the boy has the nerve to grin at him, eyes glimmering like an interested cat, and Lance can’t stop the shudder that tears through his body.

 

“Done?” The boy asks, reaching over to brush a hand against Lance’s wet hair, tucks a stray clump behind his ear, and cups his cheek. The boy’s hand is warm, warmer than what Lance thought it would be, with how dangerous he was. It feels as if the boy should feel as cold as ice, but he isn’t. “Caught your breath?”

 

He smiles, and Lance feels like his breath’s been stolen out of his lungs all over again. He hacks up a bit more water and the boy laughs, throwing his head back, exposing the long expanse of his neck and the jolt of his Adam’s Apple as his pale shoulders shake with laughter.

 

“Not yet,” Lance says breathlessly, eyes as wide as the largest shell in his collection – slightly bigger than his palm, which is _huge_ – and the boy tightens his grip even further. Lance chances a look; the skin below the boy’s fingers looks mottled black and blue. He attempts to flex his fingers and feels amazed that he still retains feeling in it.

 

The boy leans in, close enough for Lance to count each individual eyelash and by the gods, this boy is _devastatingly_ gorgeous. Lance could cut diamonds on his boy’s cheekbones, and his jawline makes Lance twitch.

 

“Too bad,” the boy breathes out on Lance’s skin, eyes trailing down to stare at Lance’s drenched, translucent shirt, and back up to Lance’s eyes. He smiles lazily, and Lance barely has enough warning before they go back down, before he finds himself struggling to get air back into his lungs, and all the while, he swears he hears music swirling in his ears, louder than the ticking of his heartbeat.

 

-+-

 

“What _are_ you?” Lance asks, breath coming out of him in harsh pants. “Not human, right?”

 

Keith startles, turning and staring at him with bright, bright vivid eyes that sting when Lance looks at them for too long. His head’s pounding and there’s scratches lining his body, curling up from the small of his back to wrap around the crook of his elbows, tiny half moon imprints carved into the curve of his clavicle.

 

“Not human,” Keith agrees, and bares his teeth.

 

Lance is filled with an abrupt sense of bravado, swallowing tightly and leaning in, pressing his forehead against Keith’s and shaking from the effort, shuddering from the heat that melts from Keith’s skin to his, fingers weak in a grip around Keith’s shoulder.

 

“What, then?” He says, and Keith’s smile grows larger, so wide that Lance can count each individual canine from where he is and oh, they’re all sharper than his sister’s needles. _Oh_ , Lance thinks, and when he blinks, the image of Keith sinking those teeth into his neck rises to the back of his eyes.

 

Keith reaches up, wraps his arms around Lance’s neck, one palm pressed against the joint where skull meets backbone and it feels like Lance is being cradled softly, gently, like he’s being treasured.

 

“You humans are so curious,” Keith whispers, breathing out a sigh. “Always wanting to know about things that can hurt you.”

 

“You said you wouldn’t hurt me,” Lance says. “Two days ago, you said.”

 

“I said I wouldn’t kill you,” Keith corrects, eyes shining like gems hidden at the bottom of the ocean, the sea rising in his eyes. It smells like salt water and electricity, the bite of pain at the back of his neck, and Lance knows Keith is barely digging his nails into skin.

 

“We don’t keep our promises, anyway,” Keith says, and his lips turn up. Up, up, up, until he’s smiling like Lance just gave him the world. “I’m something that you humans write fairytales about.”

 

“Fairytales,” Lance says, “or warnings?”

 

Keith laughs, and Lance catches another glimpse of his teeth. He imagines them stained red, imagines the color of wine dotting the corners of Keith’s lips, and finds it’s not that hard to imagine at all.

 

“Why can’t it be both?” Keith tilts his head and pulls slightly harder, making Lance tumble back down into the water.

 

“I’ll show you my song,” he says, sounding like he’s already started singing. He hums, and Lance’s head goes hazy.

 

-+-

 

A siren loved a boy and gave up everything for him. Her wings, her tail, her song. She took them all and threw them at the sea witch and begged with her throat bared for the witch to give her something that would help her.

 

The sea witch pitied her, the siren gone mad with the song of love and gave her everything that she asked for.

 

This sea witch was a good witch, and so even as the ocean called back for its princess, the siren was free to roam on land, with weak legs and a hoarse voice and love bursting from every part of her soul.

 

The boy she fell in love with took her and married her, and they made honest people out of each other.

 

This story is not about them.

 

 

-+-

 

Lance knows why this is a bad idea. He knows, he knows, he’s so _aware_ of all the complications behind this decision but he can’t _help_ it. He comes back, lets the breath get ripped out of his body as he forces his eyes open to watch the corrals sway with the current, lets his wrists bruise as he sees the corrals glint bright with colors that he wants to burn into his eyes, lets his eyes linger on the boy beneath him who’s entirely in his element, twisting like he was born in the water.

 

He’s 60% certain that this boy doesn’t need to breathe underwater. Lance has seen him take deep shuddery breaths above water, especially when Lance has to leave and the boy wraps his arms around his neck, lightly presses the pads of his fingertips into his Adam’s Apple and makes Lance swallow on reflex for fear of choking; he’s seen the boy inhale and stop, like he’s tasting the air lingering in his mouth, eyes closed and lips turned up.

 

But underwater, the boy just goes down and down and down and doesn’t come back up. Lance brings a book once, just _once_ , because he has the flu and can’t breathe properly but he still wants to talk to the boy, and the boy gets impossibly irritated.

 

He ducks beneath the water and Lance tries to not care, cracks open his book and starts reading, and he must have read two hundred pages before the boy resurfaced.

 

The boy shakes his head like a wet dog, salt water flying everywhere and hitting Lance who curls over his book as any protective owner should, and runs a hand through his hair, slicking his fringe back.

 

Lance can’t breathe properly with his blocked airways, but this boy seems to always make him try to see how much air can be forced out of his lungs at any given moment. He flushes bright red and can feel the heat creeping all the way up to the base of his ears.

 

“What’s that?” The boy asks, and since he sounds mildly interested, Lance shows him the summary. It’s about two boys who go on a journey to reclaim one of their names. Names have power in that world, and one boy had his stolen by a wizard when he was a baby.

 

The boy looks vaguely considering. “Names, hm?” He folds his hands on the ground and lays his head down, looking at Lance from the corner of his eye. “Do you have a name?”

 

Lance jerks sharply. “I- yeah.” Did he not introduce himself when they first met? “I’m Lance.”

 

The boy makes an interested noise. “Lance,” he says, like he’s relishing the taste of the word. “ _Lance_.” There’s a distinct musical tone to the last pronunciation of the word and it sends chills down Lance’s back. He scoots closer, still leaning against a rock close by and his eyelids feel slightly heavy. He kind of feels drowsy.

 

“I don’t have a name,” the boy muses, and Lance hums in reply. He’s too out of it to be shocked. It just seems natural, another feature of this mysterious boy that Lance knows he should be staying away from. The boy has teeth like a shark’s, the boy doesn’t breathe underwater, the boy doesn’t have a name.

 

“Are you falling asleep on me?” The boy asks, but his voice’s lower, a baritone bass voice that rings in Lance’s ears. It wraps around him and enters his head, curls up in the higher functions of his mind and settles down like a satisfied pet.

 

“Mmhmm,” Lance says quietly, drowsily, and his eyelids are getting heavier. “Tired. Sick.”

 

“Sick?” The boy wraps a hand around Lance’s ankle and drags him slightly closer. “You humans are startlingly weak.”

 

Lance makes an agreeing noise at the back of his throat. “Weak,” he repeats, and coughs.

 

He feels something sharp scrape at his ankle, tearing across the skin and pressing against bone, but even that slight pain isn’t enough to jolt him wide awake. He feels better, all of a sudden, and when his eyelids flutter open he catches the boy licking his lips, pressing his thumb against Lance’s ankle.

 

It ignites a weak flare of pain and Lance hisses, like the boy’s pressing a new bruise that _hurts_.

 

The boy hides a smile and adds more force against Lance’s ankle. “Sleep,” he adds, voice going even lower. “Close your eyes,” he croons, and presses harder against the spot. “Go to sleep, Lance.”

 

“’m not s’pposed to sleep here,” Lance tells him in a slurred voice, and the boy laughs. “D’nt know your name,” he points out. “Can’t sleep near strangers.”

 

“Call me Keith,” the boy says, and immediately, Lance’s body goes loose. Relaxed, like someone just cut off all the strings holding him taut. A name to place to a face. Names have power, don’t they? “Keith’s a nice human name, isn’t it?”

 

“Mm,” Lance says, and his eyes thud shut.

 

-+-

 

“Are all humans so bad at swimming?”

 

Lance heaves, chest throbbing with pain as he tries to suck in more air to fuel his lungs, keep his blood pumping in his veins and he clutches weakly at a rock on the ground. He grips it, tugs himself up further onto the ground and flips over, legs still submerged in the water. It’s hard to tell if it’s salt water or sweat pressing his hair to his forehead and a cold chill spills through his body.

 

He shivers, and Keith swims over, languishing by his side and pressing a warm arm to Lance’s chest. “You’re _really_ bad at this,” he says, lips curled up, the edge of a tooth peeking out under the curve of peach pink lips.

 

Keith circles his fingers around Lance’s wrist and lifts it to his mouth, pulls his lips back and drags the points of his teeth down his wrist, and all Lance feels is a breath of arousal sliding down his body, the kind of anticipation where his muscles are tensing up in his body, getting ready for his mind to explode, slowly watching with half-lidded eyes and shaky breaths as Keith leans in and-

 

He fits his lips around Lance’s wrist and digs in, just a bit, enough for Lance’s skin to purple and a drop of blood leaks through the tiny puncture wound Keith’s made. Lance never thought he’d bruise this easily, but after every trip here his body’s littered with tiny spots of black and blue and it’s been hard covering them up with the makeup he’s squirreled away from his sister.

 

“I’m not going to bite you,” Keith murmurs against his wrist, “we don’t _bite_. We do, however, feast. But not today.”

 

“Someday?” Lance asks weakly. Not because he wants it – oh _no_ , he _doesn’t_ – but he doesn’t know a lot about Keith. Almost nothing, actually. “You’re gonna kill me or something?”

 

Keith stares at him for a while, lips still pressed to his wrist, thumb idly stroking the vein jumping beneath Lance’s skin. “Something,” he says slowly after a while, a new light entering his eyes. “I don’t-“ it’s the first time Lance has heard him stumble- “I don’t think I’m going to kill you. Haven’t I already said that?”

 

“ _You_ won’t,” Lance tells him. “My Mama probably would.”

 

When Keith laughs, it sounds like the wind chime his grandma hangs outside James’ room, tinkling in the wind, dancing with the air.

 

-+-

 

He opens his eyes to James hovering over him, perched on his chest with his palms pressed flat on Lance’s shoulders. Sunlight filters in through the translucent curtains flowing in the wind and Lance can make out gray dust motes floating in the air, circling James’ head like a dusty halo.

 

“Hey buddy,” he says quietly, rubbing at his eyes with one hand, the other sliding up James’ back and curling around his neck, pulling at the strands of baby hair he still has. “S’up? What time is it?”

 

“It’s _nine_ ,” James informs him, nose scrunched, chin tilted up, looking like an unhappy little prince. “It’s _late_. Why did you come home so late last night?”

 

Late? Lance has to recall. He throws his mind back, winces when he gets lightheaded, and tries to focus. Last night, he came home late.

 

He’s been coming home late recently, with sand tucked in the creases of his fingers and salt water on his tongue, collecting in the curve of his collarbones, pressing his hair to the base of his skull.

 

Lance blinks, and a sharp grin rises to the front of his mind, elbows looking like they were crafted out of broken glass, lips the shape of half moon circles that creased into his skin, eyes dark and brimming with anticipation, making his blood run hot and boil over.

 

“H’ve I?” Lance says dumbly, even as he knows full well the answer to that question.

 

James looks vastly unimpressed, as much as an eight year old can look unimpressed. The ends of his lips are turned down and he looks as if he’ll start scowling any minute. Lance can’t help but pat his cheek and rub at the furrow in his brother’s brows.

 

“S’ry,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, and his eyelids flutter close for a brief second. “One min’.”

 

 _Just one more minute of sleep_ , he thinks. _One minute and I’ll be up to play with you._

 

His brother makes a disinterested noise and flops down on top of him, almost crushing the air out of Lance’s lungs with how hard he falls. Something that sounds suspiciously like a whine escapes James’ mouth, and Lance’s heart squeezes.

 

Has he been so distracted that he hasn’t been paying attention to his brother? He thinks, thinks _hard_ , and comes to the conclusion that yeah, he’s been a shit brother this summer.

 

“I’m s’ry,” he says softly, running a hand through his brother’s hair. “Today’s our day, ‘kay?”

 

“Mmrrph,” James says into his neck. “’Kay.”

 

Lance chuckles, laughter wrecking his body as he shakes, and James hits him lightly on his arm. He can feel James rocking with the weight of his laughter and it just makes Lance laugh all the more harder. His darling petulant brother.

 

“Sandcastles later,” James tells him imperiously, both hands reaching up to cling to Lance’s neck, and Lance’s smile smooths out into something more relaxed. There’s a bit of a lingering pain when James accidentally digs into a bruise at Lance’s collarbone, but he puts it to the back of his mind and relaxes into the bed.

 

His _darling_ brother, he thinks, and for a brief moment, forgets about Keith.

 

-+-

 

It gets to the point where he doesn’t go back to the cave for a week. A week that flies by in a flurry, because his Mama decides to take them out shopping for three days and Lance goes _crazy_ with Lilia, rushing through shops and throwing clothes into the crook of his elbow, whirling fabric around. He tosses outfits to his sister, catches outfits from her, stays in fitting rooms for around half a day and comes out victorious, with James kicking his legs as he sits on a chair too high for him and fiddles with the tags on the clothes Lance puts beside him.

 

After the shopping spree, summer _really_ hits, and the beach is filled with people to the point that it makes Lance dizzy with anticipation. Everybody knows everybody, or is willing to get to know everybody, and Lance is swept up in a whirlwind of games, always getting roped into a new volleyball match that lacks a player, or surfing with some guys who want to learn a few tricks, or just fooling around with James near the shore, leaving imprints in wet sand and searching for shells with the sun in their eyes. It’s too easy to lose track of time and when Lance finally catches a breath, he’s sitting at the table in the kitchen, sipping at a smoothie and staring out of the window at the ocean.

 

The moon hangs swollen in the sky and the sea looks like something out of a fairytale, dusted in a silvery blue and it feels as if Lance could see Atlantis rising out of the waters, a castle on the sea.

 

If he squints, he thinks he can barely make out the cut of the cave, the waves lapping against the slippery rocks and Keith rises, unbidden, into his mind.

 

He thinks of water coming up at him like a missile, crashing over him and taking over the air in his lungs, a vice-like grip on his wrist and ankle, the glow of sapphire eyes amidst his dimming vision and dark sea; he thinks of what it feels like, every time he goes back to that cave, what it feels like to drown and it takes him a while to realize he’s stopped drinking.

 

His mouth hangs open and he’s almost fully turned to the window, eyes resting on the waves kissing the shore and the lonely figure the cave makes in the moonlight.

 

“Drink your avocado,” his grandma says suddenly, and there’s a hand on his shoulder, sliding up to the base of his neck, gripping him hard and Lance blinks. She tugs gently and Lance follows, turning around on his chair to refocus his gaze on the oak table smoothed with polish and he reaches for the straw.

 

His grandma sits with him, waits until he finishes his smoothie and then places both hands on his cheeks, thumbing at the corners of his eyes, rubbing against his brow bone. There’s something wary in her eyes, a glint that makes Lance want to shudder while stretching his hands out to be caned, and she sighs quietly.

 

“You had to go and do it, didn’t you?” she asks, and there’s a gasp from the hallway. His head shoots up and Lance is treated to the sight of his Mama standing in the corridor, a hand against her chest and the other gripping the edge of the door like it’s the only thing giving her strength to stand.

 

“Mama,” she breathes, and her eyes focus on the open window behind them, the curtains blowing inwards from the wind, the sea rising and falling against the sand. “Don’t tell me my baby-”

 

She stalks forward before either of them can say a word, reaching out to pull the windows shut and locks it with her lips pursued together, drawing the curtains to block out as much moonlight as she can.

 

His Mama turns around with worry on her face; the moon is a backlight behind her and she looks like she’s glowing, for a moment.  
  
“Lance,” she says, and pulls a chair out, sits down and runs her hands over his body. She rubs fiercely even as Lance squirms and yelps, rubbing off the makeup with her fingers and pressing hard against each bruise, eyes growing darker and darker with every mark she uncovers.

 

Her fingers linger against the small puncture in his skin at his wrist, still yet to heal properly, and she inhales so sharply that Lance worries. “Lance, what did you _do_?” She asks desperately, but Lance-

 

He looks away and mumbles, “nothing.”

 

“This isn’t-” his Mama runs a hand through her hair and stands, pacing across the kitchen floor. His grandma shakes her head at him when he opens his mouth. _Don’t say anything_ , his grandma mouths, and Lance nods quickly.

 

His Mama takes a deep breath and walks back to him, places both hands on his shoulders and takes another breath. “This isn’t just _nothing_ ,” she tells him, and her voice is shaky. She isn’t looking him in the eye and if Lance didn’t know, he’d say his Mama is crying. But no, he has _never_ seen his Mama cry so, no way. Not in all sixteen years of life.

 

She looks up and Lance’s breath catches in his throat. She- he throws an arm out onto the table, reaching- grasping for _anything_ and his grandma slides a tissue box into his palm. He rips three tissues out in his haste and presses them against his Mama’s cheeks, the corner of her eyes, her beautiful crow feet that suddenly look so sad and his Mama looks abruptly tired. Like she’s old, like she’s weary and upset, like her age has caught up to her and she isn’t the strong woman he always knew her to be.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says in a small voice. His heart dips even further when she breathes out a choked laugh. He doesn’t know what to do. “I’m really sorry.”

 

“Tell me, baby,” she asks him, “tell me who did this to you.”

 

And Lance doesn’t want to see his Mama cry anymore, so he tells her the whole story.

 

His Mama laughs a little at the end, a tiny half-sob that turns into a chuckle and his grandma has to pry her fingers off Lance, helping her onto the chair and steadying her as she sits.

 

“Oh baby,” she says breathily, tears looking like mother-of-pearls gathering in her eyes and her hair seems to have taken on an unnatural flow. As if they were swimming in the water and she has her hair untied, all the strands floating in their own direction and amassing behind her like a living entity. His Mama doesn’t curl her hair before sleeping, so he’s not sure where these floating, bouncy curls came from.

 

“What?” He asks, and his Mama shakes her head.

 

“Just promise me you won’t go out tomorrow,” she says, and she’s gripping him with a strength he’s never felt, not even from Keith. Just a little harder and she could probably break his wrist. He winces, and his Mama jerks, loosening her grip. “Stay at home,” she continues, and reaches for his grandma, a message in her eyes.

 

Something passes between them, something Lance doesn’t quite understand, but he nods. He only planned to go see Keith, but surely Keith can wait for one more day. One day.

 

He can hear a familiar humming in his ears, the splash of water and the musical laughter ringing through the air, and suddenly he’s not sure if _he_ can wait for one more day.

 

The thought scares him a little, so he goes to sleep in Lilia’s room that night.

 

-+-

 

On the next night, he lingers at the door, brushing the curtains aside and peering through the window. His Mama’s probably gone to sleep, and he can make out the faint rumbling noise of his grandma’s harsh breathing as she turns in her bed. He put James to bed and Lance knows Lilia will stay in her room, so there’s just him now. Him, the door, and the vast ocean that holds Keith and all his music.

 

He opens the door and hurries out, not even bothering to lock the door behind him. There’s no one on the beach anyway, not at this time. Not when the tide is high and the moon is up, casting her light over all Lance knows as his summer home.

 

Lance thinks of Keith and speeds up, bare feet brushing against rough sand grains and the wind rushes into his face, blows against his cheeks and laughs at him, squirrels into his bones and falls asleep there.

 

But Keith is warm, and Lance won’t be as cold once he gets to the cave.

 

When the cave falls into his sight, Lance suddenly hears voices erupting from within and he stills. He slowly creeps to the entrance and sits, sliding his back down against the rock wall and settles in the damp sand.

 

He’s never heard Keith get so loud and so _angry_ , he thinks, and there’s still the undertone of a melody to Keith’s voice, like an opera singer shrieking at the top of her voice.

 

And- he jerks, sitting upright, eyes blown wide and panic rising in his throat. That other voice, the one he’d know _anywhere_ ; he’s heard it for all his life and what, exactly, is his Mama doing here?

 

He can’t help it; he rushes to a small hidden hole in the cave where sound travels better and the whole conversation is thrown into perspective. Lance can see his Mama from behind a rock and she’s facing the rock pool, head held high and shoulders thrown back. Keith hasn’t left the rock pool at all, for the whole time Lance has known him, so he’s probably still there, half submerged, sapphire eyes glinting wildly.

 

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Keith tells her, and Lance closes his eyes, imagine Keith biting the words out, shoulders stiff and shaking with frustration. “You have no idea who I am. You don’t know _what_ I am. What I can do.”

 

She barks out a laugh, high and hysterical, and Lance feels a shiver creep up his spine.

 

“Boy,” she says, and her voice echoes in the cave, bouncing off walls and ringing in Lance’s ears, “ _you_ have no idea who I am. How old are you, a couple decades? Fifty? Eighty? You haven’t even seen the turning of your first century, you immature fool.”

 

Lance huddles in on himself. He can’t believe what he’s hearing – the talk of years thrown around in multiples of ten like they’re nothing, the implication that his Mama is far older than a century (older than a century, he thinks, and laughter chokes up his throat), he feels dizzy.

 

He shifts, trying to get a better angle and he sees how Keith’s reared back, eyes wide in horror and his body isn’t defiant anymore, shoulders rounded and arms wrapped around himself. Keith looks- weak. He looks weak.

 

It’s a look Lance has never considered on him.

 

“You think this is all fun and games, fooling around with a boy from Land, don’t you?” His Mama says, and her hair looks like a rising wave, river currents flowing through the strands. “Were you sleeping when they told you about the people from Land? Did you not wonder where all your brethren who _stole_ people went?”

 

She leans in close, bares her teeth at Keith, and Lance sees Keith visibly flinch back.

 

“You know _nothing_ ,” she breathes out. “If you touch him to bait him, to lure him in, to trap him in your _song_ -“ his Mama pauses, straightening, taking one step forward. “I’ll show you just exactly who I used to be, who I _am_ , and what I can do with a harpoon.”

 

Lance thinks he can see the bob of Keith’s Adam Apple, see him swallow tightly and shiver, and Lance is shaking too, nails pressing so hard against his thighs that they draw the slightest prick of blood.

 

His Mama seems to jolt, head twitching like she’s going to turn and look at something, but she steadies herself and levels a look at Keith.

 

“If I wanted to, I could make the whole ocean bleed red with your blood,” she says softly, to the point where Lance has to strain to her it. “If I wanted to, boy, I could have you exiled. Coming to Land hasn’t lost me my wing-sisters in the ocean.”

 

Keith finally finds his voice and spits back, “and yet, you’ve lost everything by turning _human_.”

 

There’s laughter resounding in the cave, filling Lance with an eerie sort of calm, making Keith flinch at the sound.

 

“You stupid boy,” she says, and Lance can tell it’s almost, almost _fond_ , “I lost nothing. I have lived for five centuries and then I fell in love with a mortal man. Nothing was taken from me. I gave it all up for my love. He is my life, and now so are my children.

 

“That boy you’ve marked, he’s one of mine. And one of mine is one of the ocean, so I’d be careful where you put your hands, unless it’s serious.”

 

She turns, eyes landing on exactly where Lance is hiding, and jerks her head. Lance immediately clambers out of the hole and has to do a pseudo walk of shame to her side, where she wraps her arms around him and holds him close. Only at this proximity can he tell she’s trembling, and her grip isn’t as strong as it usually is.

 

“My baby,” she says, and her hands shake.

 

Lance hopes he sends something vaguely apologetic in his eyes to Keith, who looks like he’s been clobbered at the back of his head by ten wooden clubs, and hugs his Mama tighter.

 

“I didn’t know you were five centuries old,” he says, because that’s all he can think of, and she erupts into a watery laugh.

 

-+-

 

For the rest of the summer, Lance doesn’t go back. His Mama seemed so distraught over the whole incident that he didn’t dare visit Keith again, and everything that she had said that night – he didn’t understand everything, and he wasn’t sure if he _wanted_ to understand everything.

 

He distracted himself with James, who was thrilled that Lance was finally dedicating so much time to him again, and Lilia, who Lance thinks could guess that he was going through emotional turmoil. She never prodded at him, just let him lean against her even if he was sticky with seawater and gave him popsicles whenever he asked for them.

 

Once, she lingers at his door and leans against the frame, quiet eyes staring at him.

 

“Heartbreak hurts,” she offers, and Lance blinks at her before spluttering.

 

“There’s _no heartbreak_ of _any_ sorts going on!” He yells, voice going high from embarrassment, and she cracks a smile.

 

“Still,” she insists, and uncrosses her arms. “It hurts, even if you’re not aware you’re hurting, you idiot.”

 

Lilia looks at him like she could look into his soul, and now that Lance knows supernatural creatures exist, he’s not exactly sure that she _can’t_.

 

“Summer romances are tough,” she says, and leaves it at that.

 

-+-

 

“Okay, maybe- _maybe_ , you were right. It was heartbreak. Don’t say ‘I told you so’.”

 

“… well then. Did you really like him?”

 

“Yeah. I did. For some reason.”

 

“Maybe you’ll see him again next summer.”

 

“I don’t know if- wait. _Wait_. When did I ever say it was a _guy_ -”

 

“Big sister knows all, and you’re really not subtle.”

 

-+-

 

Next summer, Lance is taller. He’s filled out more, the worst of puberty left behind him, face clear of acne (thank you, Lilia) and still owns an aching heart.

 

His Mama’s spoken with him and she’s essentially told him to do whatever, but keep a weapon close by if he ever decides to visit Keith again, and Lance tries to choke back down hysterical laughter every time he thinks of Keith.

 

As if it would be a choice if he were to visit him. As if Lance could choose _not_ to go back to the cave and pray for Keith to be there, waiting with open arms, wanting to pull him in and show him the depths of the ocean again.

 

Lance has spent the better part of a year hurting and aching, seeing stars behind his eyes every time he pressed the pad of his finger into a bruise Keith left on his skin, seeing Keith in every dark haired and pale skinned boy he came across, waking up with damp eyes and shaking fingers, yearning for _Keith, Keith, Keith_.

 

It’s been a year without hearing Keith’s song, which makes it even worse. It means this madness is infatuation without reason, without the call of his siren song, without any work on Keith’s part. It’s just Lance, it’s all Lance, just him and his mind and the memory of Keith’s grin.

 

The first night, he flies out of the house, runs and runs until he reaches the cave ignoring the burn in his thighs and the breathlessness stuck in his lungs. He enters the cave, and there’s someone already in there, but said someone is leaning against the wall and gripping a rock for support, dressed in nothing but boxers.

 

 _It’s not Keith_ , is the first thing Lance thinks, and disappointment hits him like a heavy truck. He blinks rapidly, fans his face and looks at the top of the cave, internally scolding himself for being an idiot and tearing up.

 

“Some help would be appreciated,” someone says with a shaky voice, irritation an undercurrent running through, melding with the faint music that Lance can still hear, and he jerks up, eyes wide.

 

It’s- It’s _Keith_ , standing on two legs that look to be giving out any moment and Lance catches Keith as he falls with a laugh, high laughter that creeps out of his throat and explodes in a fiery array of sparks, tumbling off the walls and making his whole body shake with the effort.

 

Lance can’t stop laughing, can’t stop _crying_ , and Keith swats at him with a weak, unsteady hand. The slap turns into a desperate grip on Lance’s wrist, nails digging in until they _hurt_ and Keith’s teeth look as sharp as ever when his mouth drops open in shock as he almost slips on the ground.

 

“This is _horrible_ ,” Keith says. “How do you even walk like this? Let’s go back, I take it back, let’s go back to me with a tail and wings in the water and you being an idiot in the water.”

 

“Shut up,” Keith says, when Lance just continues to laugh. He presses his fingers against the corners of Lance’s eyes and frowns. “Stop crying. Shut up.”

 

“By the _gods_ ,” Keith swears, and shuts Lance up himself by pressing his lips to Lances’ mouth, biting on his bottom lip and drawing blood.

 

-+-

 

Apparently, the sea witch remembers the girl who begged her for help. She’s lived for centuries upon centuries, but she remembers the girl who came crying and begging for a life on Land. She remembers receiving the invitation to the wedding in a bottle set loose on the currents of the ocean, her address neatly carved into the cork, and she had attended in a wheelchair, sitting at the corner of the chapel because she couldn’t walk on two legs properly.

 

She’s gotten more bitter with time, with other creatures asking for help and giving nothing in return, and she starts to find loopholes in everything, cutting costs, cutting gains, tricking people she finds irritating and making their lives miserable.

 

But her, the sea witch remembers, and when a boy comes asking for help again, she gives everything to him as well. Even more, because she’s feeling generous after feeling petty for so long, she makes the process reversible at will.

 

And when the boy says he wants to introduce her to someone, she blinks, and has to wipe furiously at her eyes when she sees the girl all grown up with three beautiful children, one of whom is the beau of the boy she helped.

 

She remembers the girl who gave everything up for her love on Land, and she’s not at all surprised that her son possessed enough song to convince a boy on Sea to give everything up for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a review with your thoughts or drop by my [twitter](https://twitter.com/zxrysky) and [tumblr](http://zxrysky.tumblr.com/) .


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